Perfect Fix
by Santigold
Summary: Everyone has their demons and everyone has their fix. And for Ramona Stapleton that fix is alcohol. But happens when Ramona meets Tate Langdon, a cocaine-druggy with a few demons of his own? Tate may be Ramona's new fix but the odds are against them and the Murder House is doing it's worst. Can Tate protect Ramona, when he himself is her biggest threat? Tate/OC, Pre-Harmons era


**AN: Hey, everyone! This is my first story on this account, my first AHS story, and literally my first fanfiction is years! So I may be a tad rusty at it...nevermind that. This is a chapter story that might end up as a prequel. Either that or in a few chapters we'll be all caught up to the Harmons era. No matter what happens I hope you enjoy!**

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_ 'A sip. That's all I'll take. No more than a sip.'_

The thought buzzed in my head like angry wasps, the jumbled words bouncing off the inside of my skull like a bullet in a metal room. I stare down at the bottle in my hands, full of caramel brown liquid. Liquor. Brandy to be more specific. Not exactly the good stuff, no I couldn't afford that, but good enough to get me buzzed.

"Ration this, Ramona. Make it last." I say under my breath. I'm sitting under the bleachers alone in my usual spot, a brown worn patch in the grass. The sun was high in the sky and at it's highest point. It's nearing noon and early September making the California heat is nearly unbearable. Nearly. I came here everyday for months but I was never here this early. For a moment I contemplate leaving to come back later or maybe not at all. But then I unscrew the cap of the brandy in my hand and the scent rises up to my nose and it's definite, I'm not leaving here any time soon.

I shift the bottle in my hands for a second and give myself the reminder one more time, "Just a sip". I raise the bottle to my lips and I only feel it's burn in my throat for a second before a voice interrupts.

"You know drinking can give you cancer, right?"

For a moment I freeze. Typical. Fucking Typical. I should've known that I wasn't the only delinquent who used the bleachers. Still, I was here first. I turn slowly, praying it wasn't one of the hard-core junkies, the kind that took territory pretty seriously, but no, instead it was one of the nobodies. The kids who weren't preps and weren't junkies and weren't exactly popular. I nod towards him and turn back around. "Cool. What kind?"

"Oh, all kinds. Breast, liver, bladder. Really fucks you up." the boy replies. I take a swig of the bottle at hand. This time I stand up to face him and I take him in. He's tall, taller than me by a good 6 inches and he has sandy blond hair, light purple bags under his eyes. His black eyes, as if they were dead. "'Wonder who'd come to me funeral. What are you here for anyway. Under the bleachers ain't exactly a zen garden." I say to him, dusting off my the flannel shirt tied at my waist. "I just like hanging out here. It's quiet, I guess." he says as he grinds his converse sneakers into the dirt.

For a moment I'm about to believe him, walk away and let him have his peace. But I see the slight moment just as I turn away. It was a simple move, his hand bending back to push something further up his sleeve. A druggie. "You lecture me on drinking?" I laugh, turning back around. The boy looks up at me and for a moment I nearly step back. Dead eyes; the words float into head like clouds. But I push them away.

"So what's your fix? Weed? LSD? Acid?" I ask, feeling a bit nosey. For a second or two I think he's not going to answer me but instead he slips the baggie out of his sleeve and holds it out for me to see.

"Cocaine? I-uh-okay." I stutter, slightly baffled."I'll leave you to it, I guess." Westfield High wasn't a flower garden, for sure, but _cocaine?_ That was a bit ...hard-core, even for here. I back up a few steps without taking my eyes off the zip-lock bag. I'm at the end of the bleachers ready to get the fuck out of there but then -

"Uh, Can I know your name?"

I hesitate for a moment. 'Stop being so damn judgmental. You have your fix, he has his.' and with that I about face. "Ramona Stapleton." I say as I drum my fingers against the back of a level of bleacher, nervously. "I'm Tate." he says in return, smiling. The gesture calms my nerves about him a little, so I return it. "Well, Tate, I guess I'll see you around. And if you don't mind me saying...try to go easy on yourself." I advised before stepping out from under the bleachers and into the sunlight.

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**AN: So there's the first chapter, I hope you enjoyed. I'd love comments and critique and I hope you continue to read the next chapters. Bye!**


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